


As Long As We're Going Down

by night_reveals



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Knotting, M/M, Mild Language, Multi, Mutiny, Rimming, Self-Lubrication, Slut Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter touches Derek after popping out of the grave, he steals the mantle of Alpha out from under his nephew. Months later the Alpha Pack comes to Beacon Hills, and Stiles sacrifices himself to keep the people he loves safe -- until he can't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long As We're Going Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eternalsojourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/gifts).



> Written for eternalsojourn's pregnancy fest; it has neither children nor pregnancy. I think I'm doing it wrong.
> 
> Many thanks to ChristyCorr for beta'ing.
> 
> The dubcon is between Derek and Stiles. The noncon is between Peter and Stiles; it does not include sexual violence. If the content notes on this story set off warnings in your head, please don't proceed. To request more information before reading, or to find out how I label stories, see [here](http://night-reveals.dreamwidth.org/19536.html). Fair warning: this fic is a patch-up job, and I'm not completely sure I haven't created a frankenstory.

  


Stiles can feel himself changing.

It starts small. Sitting in chemistry class with Mr. Harris glaring down at him, Stiles notices that his vision is blurry. So blurry that the board looks like someone used watercolors instead of chalk. Stiles blinks, but it only gets worse. A piece of dirt must be in his contact. He takes it out, and immediately his vision betters. When he slips the second out, he can see a small thread sticking out of the shirt of a boy all the way across the room.

Stiles inhales, quiet, sharp.

  


~

  


The Alphas are sniffing around the school. They've been running rabid through Beacon Hills for weeks, only Peter’s tenuous promises and threats stopping them from going with instinct. Still they lurk, waiting for one of the humans in the Pack to be vulnerable enough that their instinct finally overrides whatever weak agreement Peter came to with them. 

When Stiles walks out of the building, he feels their eyes on him like fists to his heart, painful. The panic should be dulled by now, but it's not, it never is, and Stiles hates that his terror has driven him into the arms of something he never otherwise would have embraced.

In the parking lot, a black Camaro waits for Stiles, purring over the asphalt.

It follows Stiles' Jeep home, a shadowy smudge in the rear-view mirror.

  


~

  


**get home alright?** reads Scott's text, the same text Stiles has received every day for too long.

His window is already opening, Derek climbing through and planting his feet onto Stiles' floor with no invitation.

 **yeah, im cool man** , Stiles sends back as he's being scented and scratched and licked.

“They want you,” Derek says as he strips Stiles of his jeans. “They want to take and turn you.”

“Well, they can't.” Stiles’ mouth twists in danger and annoyance. Derek is going to rip another one of his shirts, he can feel it. "Hold up."

“If you yell,” whispers Derek against Stiles' ear, his breath coming over Stiles' face hot and wet, “they'll hear you.”

“Think I don’t know that? They’re always there, creepier than you ever were, which is an accomplishment, let me tell you.”

“They should be leaving you alone by now. Why aren’t they leaving you alone yet?” Derek pulls Stiles jeans hard and the button rips, zipper straining under his hand.

“Wait, Derek, calm down,” tries Stiles, but his jeans are already a mangled mess on the floor, his sheets taut and Derek clutching him tightly.

“They can't take you if you belong to us,” pants Derek, his hands wrapped around Stiles' front, forcing him face-first into the bed. “Let him. Let him give you the bite.”

Stiles whole body shivers under Derek. If he -- if he lets Peter do as he’d wanted last year, he’d be able to fight. He wouldn’t need protection, and this thing between Derek and him might untwist itself in Stiles’ chest, become purer, something Stiles could discover himself in. 

Then the moon would come, and he’d be forced to acknowledge he was no longer human.

“No,” replies Stiles shakily, a mere shadow of the refusal it had once been.

“Then – ” says Derek, sentence unfinished.

“It's fine, mark me inside, do it.” 

Even though this has been going on for weeks and weeks, Derek is still clumsy behind him, too quick or too slow by turns, painfully real and earnest. He slicks Stiles up and it's both a chore and a gift, both something cursory and something to be savored, his fingers hitting Stiles' sweet spot like they were meant to live there, and Stiles wants to scream at him, _make up your mind_.

But Stiles isn't in the position to make demands.

Inside of him, Derek is unforgiving, thick and stretching, a burning presence that Stiles tries to breath around and through, his voice catching in sobs as Derek fucks him.

Stiles is jacking himself off when he moans, “Derek,” and comes all over the sheets.

“You smell,” pants Derek against his neck, his teeth (beta teeth, harmless teeth) gnawing at Stiles, “You smell different today.”

Stiles has the sense of mind to say “fuck you”, but then he's being pounded into the bed, screaming into his pillow as he takes Derek's knot, stretching until it's painful and all-encompassing, until he's pressing his secret tears into a pillow and ignoring the gentle rasp of stubble over his back.

“ _Stiles_ ,” comes Derek's voice halfway through the knotting, shattered and deep, his lips grazing Stiles' ear. “Stiles.”

Thankful. Stiles is thankful, because if it weren't Derek, it would be – _him_ , Peter, laughing, not-quite-alive Peter who would claim Stiles as Pack.

The moment that Derek pulls back is always painful, Stiles sore and overwhelmed, his body clenching up over phantom sensations, shivering like Stiles has a fever that needs to be sweated out.

Today, Derek inhales deeply after he's eased away.

Stiles feels – he feels something, wet, not only Derek's spunk between his legs, something more –

“No,” whispers Derek. “No, no, no – ”

  


~

  


It takes a day for Peter to scent him out.

  


~

  


Stiles is leaking, leaking like a girl from _there_ , his boxers unable to contain it, his jeans soaked after a few hours of wear. When Derek is around it's actual torture, because all Stiles can think about is Derek's knot, fat, filling him up, a hurt for Stiles' ache.

Derek hasn't left his side since they noticed the change, but it doesn't matter. A meeting has been called for a few hours from now, and they have no choice but to respond to Peter's summons. Before they go, Derek scents at Stiles' neck, brow creased with worry. If Derek didn't have werewolf super-healing, he'd have premature wrinkles for sure.

“You smell,” he says, urgent, his hand gripping Stiles' hip.

“Dude, you know I'm only taking showers at home now. This is my eau de lacrosse.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it,” replies Derek, snapping, his hand sliding into Stiles' boxers. He slips a finger down Stiles' crack, which is wet with something more than sweat. Stiles grits his teeth and leans forward, resting his forehead on Derek's shoulder, feeling his cock rise.

“What's happening? What's happening to me?” In the room, his voice is broken and ashy.

“We have to cover up your scent,” is all Derek says as he undresses Stiles, pulling layers off, somehow not breaking or tearing anything. At Derek's leather-pine-skin scent, Stiles goes woozy, his head filling with a constant refrain of want until he's throwing himself on the bed ass up, slutty as he touches his forehead to the bed and breathes shallowly.

They don't need lube. Stiles is just open, his hole wet and hungry and accommodating. Halfway through Derek flips Stiles, bending him in half and hitting it slow, mouthing over Stiles' pulse until Stiles knows there'll be a hickey there, even though they have a rule for that.

For the first time, Stiles doesn't care. This isn't like yesterday, or the day before that, or the week before that. It's not the same kind of lust that Stiles normally feels. It's a drive, an imperative that would freak him out more if he could think past his ass being pounded just right.

“Good bitch,” mutters Derek thickly into Stiles' hairline before tugging Stiles up to sit on his lap. It's a new position for them, too personal and intimate for what they are, but Stiles is only a body of easily broken bones and pale skin for Derek to move around. His legs spread whorish-wide around Derek's front, and his breaths stutter against Derek's cheek, till Derek bites at Stiles' lower lip.

Minutes later, Stiles processes what Derek said.

“'m not,” _a bitch_ he tries to say, but then Derek is fucking up into him perfectly and all Stiles can get out is a moan.

At the end Derek knots him. It's messy and stings, but it’s a puzzle piece being slotted into Stiles' incomplete body. They are too close together when it happens, their noses brushing, their lips separated by the tiniest particles of nothing.

“Take it, take it,” urges Derek, eyes glazed, littering soft kisses over Stiles face. The sweet edge is wholly unlike him in every way, and Stiles finally comes between their stomachs. Derek gentles him through it, rubbing a hand over Stiles' thigh, rocking their bodies together. 

“You're going to be mine.” Awe hides in Derek’s harsh voice, tucked under his coarse tone.

“You're acting weird,” forces out Stiles. He blinks heavily, head resting on Derek's shoulder as the last tremors of his orgasm rocket through him.

Derek hushes him, hand at Stiles' scalp, fingers kneading there. 

“What's happening to me?” Stiles asks again, his lashes too heavy for his eyes, his face plastered against Derek's front and Derek's seed leaking out from between his thighs. “Tell me.”

Derek breathes in-and-out slowly, as if that will disguise his nerves from Stiles, whose ear is right at Derek's swift heart.

“I'm not sure,” confesses Derek eventually, his hand coming back up to Stiles' head, holding him close. “But I think – “ he stops.

“What?” asks Stiles, and it's the bravest thing he's ever done, asking what's happening when his body is changing but he's not becoming one of _them_ , he's becoming something different. Not a lizard-man, or a wolf, or a normal human.

“You could give me children.”

  


~

  


When they arrive at the Hale house, Stiles is hoarse from shouting at Derek in the Camaro and Derek refuses to look up from the ground. Alone in all the ways that count, Stiles shudders the moment that Peter's gaze locks onto him. 

There are a few curt words about the Alphas, orders to not piss anyone off, to stay inside Hale territory -- as if any of these newly cowed betas would dare go outside it.

Only twenty minutes later, Stiles is leaking through his boxers, shifting awkwardly in the living room as Peter sends everyone away except for Derek. And Stiles.

“Oh,” says Peter in a reverent hush, his clawed hand gripping Stiles' face. “You must have known, somewhere deep inside you, why you never let us turn you.”

Across the room Derek is silent, watchful, his bulk useless against Peter's canny edges and sharp eyes.

When Stiles yanks his face away from Peter's hand, a claw catches his chin, opening its skin up to the air, blood spurting down Stiles' neck. It hurts, stinging until suddenly it doesn't, the gush of red stopping. Stiles raises a hand to his newly healed face, his eyes wide, lashes long in the low light of a creeping sunset.

“I thought it was a tale,” says Peter, almost to himself. “You should be impossible...”

From the corner Derek steps forward, shoes heavy on the rotting floor.

“Dear nephew, how long have you tried to hide this from me? Not long, I should think. He smells sweet, ripe. We're lucky he wasn't sent to school like this, all ready for the taking.”

“I'm not letting anyone do anything,” spits out Stiles, rubbing at the drying, itching blood at his neck. “I'm not take-out. You can't just pick me up from the restaurant and carry me home.”

The lazy backhanded swat that Peter delivers knocks Stiles off his feet, splaying him over the floorboards. By the time Stiles coughs out the gathering blood in his mouth, the wound where his teeth slashed the inside of his cheek is healed.

The constant growl in the background edges up, Derek making the shadows around him seem bigger, darker.

With a roll of his eyes, Peter turns to walk away and acquiesces, “Go, go to your damsel. Then bring him upstairs.”

Derek rushes to Stiles' side, helping him up with a possessive hand at Stiles' hip and back, his eyes blazing blue as he checks Stiles over for injuries.

“Leave me alone,” says Stiles, shrugging his shoulders shakily.

“We have to – “ starts Derek, words a rushing river, threatening to drown Stiles in need and fear.

“You think I don't know that?” Stiles' breath catches in his lungs, as trapped as he is. Why does he have to be the strong one, now? Why can't Derek be strong for them both, for once?

Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear it.

The Alphas have a list. They need betas they can throw away, later, and the first thing they do in any town they swarm on is turn a few useful humans. Humans that belong to another pack are even better, a sweeter prize. They're never going to taste Stilinkski flesh, though, no matter how they prowl outside his house and the police station. Peter makes sure he and his family are safe. Stiles won’t be the one to break that bargain.

“Let's just get this over with,” says Stiles as he drags his feet up the stairs, slick pouring down his thighs when he walks, evidence of his uninvited hunger.

  


~

  


The room they enter is sparse, oak bed at the wall and simple curtains shielding the charred husk of the interior from the dying sun.

“What has Derek told you about what you are?” Peter asks from across the room where he's folding his jacket and shirt. Stubbornly, Stiles doesn't look at Peter's naked chest, choosing instead to look two inches above Peter’s shoulder. “Or has my brilliant beta kept you in the dark?”

“Not much,” admits Stiles, his mouth dry. “Something about my becoming Pack changing me – something about children.” The low-grade urgency he has felt since he realized what would happen flares to life when Peter drops his slacks and boxers, revealing his blood-hard cock, yearning out into the open air. Stiles _wants_ that.

“Children?” Peter shakes his head dismissively. “Almost certainly not. You may get wet like a woman, but you aren't actually a woman. Surely we don't need an anatomy lesson today.”

The rush of relief that comes over Stiles is immediate. No children. God. Stiles licks his dry, cracked lips. “You're right. We don't. So let's skip this.”

Peter laughs. “And when you go to school tomorrow, or go home today, where your father will be waiting. How will you explain that slick between your legs? You could bring changes of clothes to school, perhaps, or down to dinner. But it'd only last a few hours. I'm not sure my betas would be able to help themselves, you putting out the stench of sweet, fuckable bitch around. Even Scott might not be able to hold back.”

At once Derek makes himself known, shifting heavily in the corner and his nails ripping at the wallpaper. It’s a useless gesture that Stiles wishes he’d stop.

Peter laughs again, not even sparing a glance at his nephew's fit. “Derek couldn't help himself, after all.” The room seems to get smaller when Peter takes a step forward, towards where Stiles is still dressed.

“I'll deal,” says Stiles, gritting it out.

“No,” corrects Peter lazily, flicking his claws out and staring down at them. “You need me. It's said that some humans can change in proximity to our kind, given the right encouragement. I never expected it to be true, but it explains why the Alpha Pack won't leave you be. You need an alpha to put your body back to sleep.” He takes a deep breath. “And frankly, Stiles, you smell good enough to devour.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest when Peter is a foot away, too close, their eyes locked together.

“Say yes,” says Peter with a coaxing smile. “Say yes to me, and you'll smell human, like you're supposed to. You won't have the Alphas come to your house some night. They won't kill your father and anyone else there in a frenzy. They won't all mount you, one after the other.” Then, gently, when Stiles doesn't respond, “I'm trying to help you.” 

Stiles wants to say no. He wants to stride to the window, break it with his fist, clutch a shard, and drive it through Peter’s heart. That’s what Stiles wants, never mind that the changes he’s newly noticing, but that he can’t control. Whatever Peter is trying to paint this as, Stiles knows the truth. He knows how few choices he really has.

Stiles grabs his own shirt and tugs it off, glaring at Peter even as his nipples pebble in the cool air. Peter can take his “yes” and shove it.

Peter's grin spreads over his face like a new wound, flashing red and white.

Under Stiles' hands, the sheets on the bed are soft, better quality than anything he or Derek have ever rolled around on. Peter is kissing softly down his back, rubbing hands over Stiles' thighs, parting them as he pushes Stiles' head into the covers. It leaves Stiles with his legs wide and the side of his face on the bed, ass up invitingly. The slick edging out of him cools as the air in the room touches it, Peter holding open Stiles' ass and _watching_ Stiles twitch.

“Don't just stare at it – ” Stiles' voice turns to a choked groan when Peter tongues at him, running his greedy face up and down Stiles' cleft, licking at the slick there. “Oh, oh fuck.” Stiles can't stop the noises bursting out from him, moans and gasps and low entreaties for Peter to _go deeper please please_. Rimming isn’t something Stiles has a lot of experience with; Derek has done him a few times, but for the first few minutes it’s always awkward, ticklish. This is neither of those. Stiles’ body is already aching for Peter, hips trembling with every lick and tiny nibble at the surrounding skin, and Stiles hates Peter for it, though it’s his own body that’s betrayed him.

“You can come,” says Peter kindly when he pulls away for a second. At the next pass of his tongue, Stiles complies obediently, a high, pained whine in his throat. Peter doesn't stop, nipping at Stiles' ass in between long minutes of coring and opening Stiles with his tongue and the occasional thumb, seeming gleeful about the whole thing. At first all Stiles can do is shiver, but he's seventeen and soon enough he's moaning again, biting his lip ineffectually.

When Peter suddenly stops, sitting up and cocking his head to the side, Stiles takes the chance to bury his head into the pillow in front of him and breathe.

“They're home,” says Peter, growl underwriting the words.

“I'll get rid of them,” comes a bruised voice from the corner. Derek. Fuck, Derek.

Peter taps a finger against Stiles' hole. “No. No, we can keep Stiles quiet, I think. Why don't you come over here? Give him something for his mouth.” There's no answer, and Stiles can't hear Derek moving towards the bed. “Derek,” says Peter, a little sharper.

Derek's footfalls are heavy, his jeans hitting the floor before the bed dips as he climbs on right in front of Stiles.

“There we are.” Peter pats Stiles' back, where Stiles is still bent over. Instead of waiting for him, Derek puts his hands at Stiles' shoulders and yanks him up, Stiles flailing, somehow getting his hands underneath him before Derek's cock almost smacks him in the face, rosy and half-hard.

At Stiles’ back, Peter forces his way in and Stiles’ mouth opens in a small circle of pleasure, angry moan dragging its way out of his chest.

“Derek,” repeats Peter with less patience, his hand curling around Stiles’ neck and pulling his head back by it, putting Stiles’ mouth at a better angle to take a face-fucking. “Take his mouth.” 

From his position with his back curved and his mouth gasping, Stiles can look up to Derek’s face, his furrowed brow and flared nostrils, his lips held in a little snarl. He sticks a thumb into Stiles’ mouth, working his mouth open further. Derek's skin is salty, like sweat and dust, but it tastes _real_. He wedges his thumb further into the back of Stiles’ mouth, placing it to the side on a molar, ensuring that Stiles’ jaw holds open. 

A low blue flame kindles in Derek’s eyes, violence simmering below the surface, and Stiles wonders who it’s for. Fuck Derek, anyway, for not being courageous enough to fight Peter when Stiles first suggested it so many months ago. 

Stiles bites, hard. 

The skin on Derek’s thumb gives way, but there’s not much flesh to go through before Stiles is stopped by a joint and his own weakness. Werewolves can snap steel in half with just the clench of their jaws, but Stiles is a mere human, and his gnawing must be more puppy-like than anything else.

It still hurts Derek, if his creased forehead and pained grimace are any judge.

Uncaring, Stiles glares up and refuses to let Derek’s thumb go. The tang of blood eventually hits his taste buds, disgusting for all it is sweet, and Stiles feels his body try to retch up. He fights it, clamping down on Derek’s thumb, his own stomach, his trembling, and his hope.

That’s when he feels it, Derek’s skin growing back in the tiny areas where Stiles’ teeth shredded it, the trickle of blood coming to a stop. It grows around the ends of Stiles’ teeth, the sensation almost imperceptible until Stiles runs his tongue over it, feeling the ridges of soft, new skin contrasted with his enamel. 

Shocked, Stiles’ anger empties out onto the sheets, leaving behind only cold. 

The whole room comes back into focus suddenly, Stiles painfully aware of Peter at his back, pounding in and panting over him, obviously having given up on getting Derek to fuck Stiles’ mouth.

Tentative, Stiles tries to lift his teeth out of Derek’s thumb, the skin seeming to suck at his enamel as Derek stares down at him with an open, fanged mouth. Finally Stiles pulls free, flicking over the new skin with his tongue -- and it’s still there, the imprint of his teeth, the tiny ridges like mountains. 

Derek isn’t healing. 

Stiles runs his tongue over the wound -- now a scar, as if years have passed -- but it doesn’t change.

A vague sense of relief tremors through Stiles when Peter comes inside him, groaning with his head pressed to Stiles’ shoulder, his arms wrapped around Stiles’ uneasy body. 

Derek doesn’t tug his thumb out until Peter slides away from Stiles’ body, obviously not wanting to bother with knotting him. It’s a good decision. Stiles would make it hell for him.

The half-closed curtain lets in enough light for Stiles to see Derek’s wet thumb, spit-coated and glistening, the scar rendered invisible in the glinting rays.

They get up from the bed, Derek tucking himself awkwardly into his jeans.

“See you next month,” is all Peter says, a sweet, decaying exhalation of words against Stiles' forehead, candy in a grave.

  


~

  


They drive home in silence. Peter’s seed leaks out of Stiles, the scent of it filling the car, stifling them both even though the wide sky opens before the road that they follow.

“Coward.” Stiles is looking forward as he hisses the word out between his teeth, finally giving voice to what he’s suspected for months.

On the other side of the Camaro, Derek’s hands tighten on the wheel, his jaw following, the muscle at his neck spasming. He doesn’t fight the accusation.

They walk together up to Stiles’ room, ignoring the stares of the few members of the Alpha Pack ringing the territory, red eyes peeking out from behind bushes and fences. For once Derek doesn’t bother to claim Stiles’ hand or torso in front of them, letting Stiles walk freely in his own yard. 

At the doorway to Stiles’ room, Derek lingers, his eyes on the ground and his hand at the door frame.

“Come here,” commands Stiles from his bed, his leg tucked into his body and his eyes hollowed. 

Derek does, jerkingly, as if Stiles is reeling him in with a barb inside his mouth. He sits next to Stiles heavily.

“Children?” asks Stiles, the word a knife in his hands, cutting at Derek as deeply as Stiles knows how.

“It is -- it is possible, no matter what my uncle said.” Derek turns to fix Stiles with a look. “And I was first. I was _first_. If you bear, you will bear from my line.”

“You’re insane,” replies Stiles, his breath coming in short bursts.

“You’re sitting next to a werewolf."

“A coward, you mean,” corrects Stiles, lips pulled back in his best sneer. It pales next to the one he gets in return, but Stiles is used to those, expects them at this point. “You won’t fight, even when you know you should.”

“No,” grits out Derek, fists clenched. “No, I'm not.”

“Prove it.” Stiles throws the challenge between them for what must be the tenth time. “We can take him. Him and the Alphas. I’m getting stronger. I can feel it.”

"If we lose, you're dead. I'm dead. Your father is dead. Probably more." 

"And you call what we're doing right now 'living'?" Stiles grabs Derek's hand, flipping it over and placing a nail at the fresh scar on Derek's thumb, rubbing over it. "How long will this last, if we don't act?"

A lone howl interrupts their conversation, the voice drifting in from outside the window. It’s an outsider, one of the invading alphas, and it grates on Stiles’ eardrums in a way it never has before he started changing. Across the bed, Derek goes still, freezing to listen closely to the cadence and tremor of whoever is issuing a decree. When the howl ends, he blinks and cants his head closer to Stiles.

"Fine," he says. "Fine."

  


  



End file.
